the heart attacks I'm convinced I have every morning upon waking.

Every thing's overstayed and over worn, rotting around the edges like an apple. Maybe the whole city's losing something real in the violent overtake. The commercialization of the gritty. I collect dirt under my fingernails with each new day and cracks on ceilings. I just add them, one on top of another. On the wall she writes, "I am no one," white paint on eroding charcoal brick.

We collect bits and pieces of people and places, trying to make it all alright someday. It's CHAOS written on the side of tie-dyed trains and I'm starting to feel myself passing by in crowds. I miss feeling something that wasn't buildings and monuments, and liquor. I miss wanting and fearing and needing and crying. But it's just temporary. It's temporary, just like me.

The girl by the railing is pounded to the ground, split in half by the music inside her head. She's been talking and handling a half-lit cigarette with more grace than she handles herself. She's staring at the posters in the movie store, falling into fiction and one-liners with a twitch in her smile. Her face resembles someone and I can't help but notice how beautiful she is, how beautiful destruction looks when suddenly it seems familiar. "It's Sunday morning again and I colored you and I with a set of plastic pens," she says. "We don't know who we are when we're not creating each other." There must be something to all this breaking down.

Written discourse on restaurant napkins, philosophy of the moment, and she says promptly "I exist." And maybe we all know we exist because we're falling apart. We are here because soon we won't. The world is in entropy. Somehow the breakdown is called living.